A. Homes - Music for Torching

"Work it gently," her mother says. "When something's stuck, you have to work it gently."

Elaine does, and the old casement frame pops open.

"Do you have apples and cinnamon? That's what they do in houses that are for sale. They put a pot of cider and cinnamon on the stove, and buyers think the place is cozy."

Her mother opens the fridge. The stench of things going bad pours out. She closes it.

Elaine goes upstairs, opening windows everywhere.

In the master bedroom, which is directly above the dining room, Elaine notices a small hole in the ceiling-a puncture straight through to the roof. It's like a pinhole camera. Through it she can see the sky, a spot of the bluest blue. A cloud passes over and then an airplane and then it's gone. Everything is in constant motion, and she is standing still.

"Open sesame." She hears her mother talking to herself downstairs.

She notices Paul's briefcase, pushed into the corner. She pulls out the cell phone and dials the Nielsons. "Paul went off without his briefcase," Elaine tells George. "I was hoping you might bring it to him in the city. Thank God you haven't left."

"Not a problem. No big deal. It's nothing," George says, his repetitions, his disclaimers all indications that it is in fact a favor. "I'm just getting in the car now. See you in a minute."

She pushes "End," then dials Daniel's school. "I need to leave a message. Could you please tell Daniel Weiss to come home, to his mother's house, after school."

"Who am I speaking with?" the school secretary asks, suddenly suspicious.

"His mother," Elaine says.

"And your name is?"

"Elaine. Elaine Weiss." She starts to say something about the house burning down.

"What's your address?" the secretary asks, cutting her off.

"Is there a problem?"

"We just have to be very careful. One moment, please."

She is on hold. The phone, pressed to her ear, is beginning to heat up. Her ear is burning.

"Elaine," the woman says, coming back, speaking as though they're old friends. "You're fine. I'll send the message-Daniel is to come home, to his mother's house, after school."

End. Elaine touches her ear. It's hot. Is a cell phone like a dental x-ray, something where the exposure should be limited?

The phone rings. It rings and simultaneously vibrates in Elaine's hand.

"Is that the phone?" her mother calls. "Is the phone fixed?"

Elaine flips the phone open.

"I've been trying to reach you all morning," a woman's voice says. "What are you wearing?"

Elaine looks down at herself. "Dirty clothes."

There's a pause. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm wearing." "What are you wearing?" Elaine asks.

"Are you speaking to me?" her mother calls in from the other room.

"Nothing," the woman says.

"Elaine?" her mother calls.

"No," Elaine says to her mother.

"Yes," the woman says.

"What number are you dialing?"

"Yours," the woman says.

"Elaine, did I hear the phone?"

"I have to go," Elaine says, starting down the stairs, briefcase in hand. "My mother is calling me."

"I'll call again later."

"I thought I heard you talking to someone." Her mother is in the kitchen. She has tied a dish towel over her nose and mouth, like a bandit. The place reeks of fire and Shalimar.

"I had to smell something decent," her mother says. "I emptied my atomizer-you'll buy me a new bottle for my birthday."

Elaine nods.

"May I?" her mother asks, taking the cell phone from Elaine. "I should call the phone company, also the electric, and I should call your father to let him know everything is all right. How do you turn this thing on?"

"It's turned on," Elaine says. "Just put in the area code and the number and push 'Send.' Could you call Sammy's school and tell them to make sure he comes home?"

Elaine flashes on the image of Sammy on the bus, waving-how could they not have seen him?

Outside, George beeps. Elaine grabs the briefcase and hurries.

"Take the trash," her mother says, pointing to the pile of garbage bags by the door.

An old blue Mustang drives by. The car passes Elaine and then backs up. The driver is a woman wearing a navy-blue floral scarf over her hair and dark sunglasses.

"Hi," she says. "Isn't it great?"

Elaine comes closer to the car. "Sorry?" she says blankly.

"The dress." The woman pulls at her dress-it's Elaine's blue Dior, the one Mrs. Hansen sold yesterday.

"Oh," Elaine says. "It's great."

"And look what I got in Elmhurst." The woman points to a blue Dior purse lying on the car seat.

"Wow," Elaine says, "you're a great shopper." There's a phone mounted between the bucket seats. "And you have a car phone."

"Couldn't live without it. It's a lifesaver. Well, gotta go," the woman says.

Elaine is left at the curb, wondering, Was that her-the mystery caller? It makes sense; the phone, the fixation on clothing. Elaine goes back into the house.

"I've done my duty," her mother says, still holding the phone. "Sammy's coming home, the phone company is on the way, the electricity will be on before dark."

The cell phone rings. Elaine sees it vibrate in her mother's open hand.

"I don't know if I like that," her mother says. It rings again. "Should I answer it? Hello?"

Elaine watches her mother's face-is it the woman calling again?

"A blouse and a skirt," her mother says, and Elaine moves to take the phone away. Her mother brushes her off. "Gray, or more a kind of taupe." A pause. "No, I don't think we've spoken before. Are you a friend of my daughter's? She's right here." Another pause. "Dirty clothes."

"Mother," Elaine says.

Her mother holds her hand up, silencing Elaine. "Umm. Ummmmm," the mother says, listening carefully. She blushes.

"Mother," Elaine says again, embarrassed by the pink flush in her mother's cheeks.

"Well," her mother finally says, "that all sounds fine, but I don't think we're interested. Thank you." She turns to Elaine. "How do you hang it up?"

"Press 'End.' Who was that?"

"I don't know. At first I thought it was some sort of survey, and then it got a little odd."

"Did it sound like she was calling from a car?"

"No. No, I don't think so," her mother says. "Is your number listed?"

"It's not our phone. It belongs to Henry."

"Well, then that's it. Turn it off," her mother says. And she does.

Paul is on the train, watching the other men drink their coffee and read their fan-folded papers. He is thinking of McKendrick, at home with pins in his ass, flipping through porno magazines. Paul is glad to be on the train, glad to be going to work. He remembers McKendrick's papery voice-"I would have died at my desk if I could have."

Paul thinks of the house, of leaving Elaine and her mother on the lawn, abandoning everything. He hasn't told anyone, but he is afraid of the house, too. He doesn't know how it will get fixed. He's afraid that something irrevocably horrible has happened, something he doesn't yet understand. What they did was so incredibly impulsive, so willfully destructive, and so strangely thrilling that he scared himself. Everything is fine, he tells himself, repeating what he said to Elaine this morning.

Make a list. He reaches for his briefcase-he doesn't have it. He has nothing. It is as though he is seven years old and has forgotten his lunch. Naked, unprepared, panicked. The train pulls into the Fordham stop, and he thinks of jumping off,

turning around, taking the next train home and getting his briefcase. He checks his watch-late. He doesn't even know where the briefcase might be. Is it in the house, in the front hall by the coat closet, or did Elaine "accidentally" sell it at the yard sale? If so, what did the price include? When he gets to the office, will someone else be sitting at his desk?